


Weapons

by Wanderer



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Male Friendship, Male Slash, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-05
Updated: 2013-11-05
Packaged: 2017-12-31 13:30:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1032240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderer/pseuds/Wanderer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Weapons, like your most cherished dreams, have a way of turning in your hands.  Finch knew that too, better than most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weapons

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to TimelessDreamer2. Without her inspiration, this little fic would still be languishing on my hard drive unfinished. : )

Weapons

 

Finch and Reese eyed the latest photograph on their board.  Karen Mattison, 53.  A single realtor with a relatively high income, no children, no large debts and no visible bad habits, she paid her taxes yearly, had a great sales record, and according to her Facebook page, seemed to have lots of friends and no enemies.  Neither man could see any obvious reasons why anyone would want to kill her, or why she'd be tempted to kill.

Reese tilted his head thoughtfully.  “Maybe her boyfriend cheats?” he suggested.

“I thought of that, but a check on her credit card purchases seems to suggest that she isn't dating anyone right now,” Finch replied.

Reese pursed his lips.  “Any sign of drug or alcohol abuse?”

“Not so far as I can tell.  So far, she seems more like a victim than a perpetrator,” Finch remarked.  “I’ll check out the other salespeople at her company.  Perhaps there’s some jealousy over her sales record there, though it would hardly seem motive for murder.  I’ll research her family and finances more deeply too,” he added.  “See what I can find out.”

“I’ll get eyes on her,” Reese added, then vanished in a silent, graceful swirl of dark coat and long legs.

Finch watched him leave.  Once he was certain Reese was gone, he sighed to himself.

Being a genius sometimes had its disadvantages.  Finch could always foresee multiple possible outcomes for his actions:  some inconsequential, some good, some bad, and a few that were disastrous.  Sadly for him, disaster seemed the likely result if he ever gave in to the attraction he’d felt for John Reese almost from the first moment they met.

Forcing his attention back to the problem at hand, Finch sat down at his desk and began researching Ms. Mattison and her family.  Hmm…   A second look at her tax records told him that she owned several large, valuable properties.  Could someone possibly hope to inherit them if she died?  He started looking for any evidence of payments to a lawyer.  That would give them a place to start looking for who her heirs might be, since she wasn’t married and didn’t have children.  Still, there might be an aunt or uncle in the picture…

There was nothing Finch liked better than solving puzzles, and part of his attention was occupied by the information about Ms. Mattison flowing over several of his monitors.  But part of his attention strayed back to Reese, as it often did.  He thought back to their first meeting.

Even then, when Reese had been filthy, far too thin and half drunk, there’d been-- _something_ there, underneath all the grime and self hatred.  Traces of the man Reese had once been.  A sense of latent power in his large, gaunt frame; the way his eyes moved constantly, restlessly, taking in everything around him with the intent, watchful gaze of a predator.  The sharp intelligence in his questions...  It had been immediately clear to Finch that despite his circumstances, Reese was still dangerous, a man to be reckoned with.

 _I knew I found the right man_.

Once Reese started working for him, though he did his best not to let Reese see it, Finch had felt both powerfully drawn to him and a bit uneasy in his presence.  Of the two reactions, Finch had concluded that his nervousness was the most useful.  Being attracted to Reese was probably hazardous to his health, both physical and emotional.  Because the man now using the alias John Reese didn’t need the weapons other men used, to make him dangerous.

John Reese _was_ a weapon.  A weapon Finch needed desperately, to save the numbers.

But weapons, like your most cherished dreams, have a way of turning in your hands.  Finch knew that too, better than most.  Though he’d never actually held a gun before meeting Reese, he’d learned about recoil – and how your fondest dreams could be twisted into the shapes of nightmares -- long before that.   He'd learned the hard way.  A tool he’d built for the government in order to save lives, had cost him his best friend and fiancé.  He also knew that the old adage, “Live by the sword, die by the sword” had become part of the language for good reason. 

Finch was a different sort of man.  He’d always much preferred the saying, “The pen is mightier than the sword.”  A child of the Information Age, Finch loved words, literature, civilized discourse and computers.  John Reese, on the other hand, seemed like a man who might’ve been happier in earlier, more turbulent eras.  Reese was tall and broad shouldered, and once he’d decided to stop drinking himself to death, he’d soon become sleekly muscled and powerful again.  A former Army Ranger and ex-CIA agent, he was proficient with every kind of modern weapon; but Finch often thought that Reese wouldn’t’ve been out of place in chain mail, wielding a broadsword in the Middle Ages.

Finch needed a man like that.  A warrior who could do things which his broken body, his lack of training and his own scruples made impossible.  But at first, despite needing his help, he'd been very wary of Reese; and for good reasons.  Despite his rags, his first impression of Reese had been of power, grief and barely restrained lethality.  Not a comforting combination, and Finch trusted his first impressions.

The fact that he _wanted_ Reese nonetheless, was a data point on a curve leading to several possible outcomes which Finch could extrapolate all too easily.  Few of them were good, and some were embarrassing.  A few were even dangerous.  Finch based his data points and resulting theoretical curves on his vast knowledge of Reese and himself, and on the fact that Reese had already attacked him, during what had only been their second real conversation. 

 _And I wasn’t even trying to flirt with him at the time_ , Finch thought sadly.

He’d never dared to do that.  Because the only way Finch could foresee his hopeless attraction to Reese yielding a positive outcome if he allowed Reese to discover it, was if Reese had feelings for him too.  Affection would’ve prevented Reese from reacting violently if he learned of Harold’s desire, and – if it was deep enough -- it might also have allowed Reese to return it.

But Finch had always believed in facing the truth, no matter how harsh.  And the truth was, that rosy little scenario was impossible.  So far as he could tell, Reese had only ever loved one person:  Jessica Arndt.  For one thing, she’d been female; and for another, her death seemed to have soured Reese on the idea of ever opening himself up like that to anyone, ever again.  Though Finch knew Reese sometimes dated Zoe Morgan, their relationship seemed strictly casual.  Finch didn’t just understand that, or even feel jealous of it -- though that was true, too.  Mainly, he approved.  Given their sad pasts and uncertain present, he felt that John was wise to guard his heart now. 

He understood a lot more about Reese than even Reese himself might’ve guessed.  Like Finch, Reese was a man who rarely smiled; but unlike Finch, his smiles were sometimes wolfish, a sign of the predator the CIA had trained him to be.  Finch had never thought it accidental that Reese also chose to clothe himself in somber, funereal black, either.  Granted, he’d had a dark suit made for Reese once, but he’d let the man choose his own colors of clothing thereafter (though he’d insisted on tailored suits).  Reese was the one who'd decided to continue wearing black.  Though Reese seldom spoke of her, Finch knew he still mourned Jessica.  And Grace, much though Harold loved her – _because_ he loved her – was still an open wound for him as well.  Though Reese didn’t know it, most of the brightly colored silk ties and some of the shirts Finch often wore had been chosen for him, or given to him, by Grace.  He'd never been quite sure if he wore them out of affection, or as visual reminders of his guilt for abandoning her. 

Different though their wardrobes were, they were both echoes of loss.  And if John was hesitant to love again, well – he wasn’t the only one.  Harold hadn't welcomed his feelings for Reese; he just hadn't been able to stop them. Even if Reese hadn’t been damaged in some of the same ways Finch had been, there were other reasons why Finch couldn’t foresee a positive outcome if he revealed how he felt.  Despite his emotional scars, Reese was still gorgeous, athletic, charming when he chose to be, and younger than Finch, as well.  A man who could have anyone.  So even if Reese had been over his lost love, Finch reasoned that he’d hardly be interested in a sarcastic, aging, paranoid male recluse with poor social skills and a broken body.

Though Finch gradually came to trust that Reese wouldn’t harm him, that Reese was in fact _protecting_ him, he’d never been sure if making a pass at the man might change all that, and provoke an extreme reaction.  Whenever he felt particularly tempted by his now handsome operative or his seemingly affectionate teasing, Finch forced himself to relive the moment when he’d been foolish enough to mention Reese’s failure to save his ex-lover.  Reese had slammed him into a wall and cut off his breath with frightening ease.  It'd been the first – and last – time he’d had firsthand experience of Reese’s great strength.  The worst of it was, even in his terror, Finch had been aware that Reese hadn’t even really been trying hard as he'd both pinned and choked him.  He'd been breathing fast, but from fury, not from effort. 

Another harsh truth:  Reese could’ve easily snuffed out his life in an instant.  And he would have if Finch hadn’t somehow found the right words to say to him, to stave off the killing rage that he'd unwittingly ignited in Reese with his unwise mention of Jessica.  Finch had never made that mistake again.  Still, the incident had been highly instructive, and one he never let himself forget.

It was painful, visceral evidence of how easily the violent side of Reese’s nature could suddenly surface.  Proof that John Reese was the most dangerous man Finch had ever known.  Not that Finch had needed any.  His files on Reese had spelled that out clearly:  soldier, Special Forces Army Ranger, CIA assassin.  Reese's past history spelled out a warning, each of his incarnations deadlier than the one before.  Finch knew who – and what -- Reese was before they ever met.  Still, knowing it and experiencing it were two different things. That assault had been a valuable lesson because it kept him from acting on his feelings for Reese later on, despite the constant temptation to do so.  Though Reese had never been violent with Finch again, given his tendency toward it, the probability that he might be if Harold ever revealed his own desire seemed rather high.

And Finch had other concerns.  Despite all of Finch's research, he didn't know everything about John Reese.  His sexual preferences, for one thing.  Finch didn’t know if Reese was bi or straight, or if his liaisons with men while in the CIA had been willing or unwilling.  But the evidence pointed to the latter, and to Reese being heterosexual, since all of his relationships prior to the CIA had been with women.  It seemed the men he’d had sex with during his time with the Agency had been merely targets to him, because after he’d gotten the information he wanted from them, Reese had either turned them over to the authorities or the CIA, or killed them.   

Reese was a dangerous man in many ways.  Even his sexuality seemed destructive.  Finch considered himself a danger to others because he’d invented the Machine, but Reese hadn’t fared much better.  The one woman he’d loved had been murdered, and all of the people he’d had sex with during his time in the CIA were now either ruined, in prison or dead. 

Armed with that disturbing knowledge, Finch had made a decision when they first met, which he’d done his best to adhere to since.  Namely, that he’d maintain a strictly professional relationship with his dangerous partner.  Gorgeous and intriguing though Mr. Reese was, even if he’d had solid evidence that Reese was bisexual, Finch still wouldn’t have confessed his attraction for him.  A relationship with Reese seemed to entail being used for information, then abandoned, imprisoned or perhaps even killed, once Reese learned all of one’s secrets.

It was a price Finch had been entirely unwilling to pay.

Though Finch gradually lost his initial fear of Reese, and no longer believed that John would harm or betray him if they became involved, he’d still kept silent about his growing feelings for his operative.  After all, even if Reese treated him well, a romantic involvement would only complicate things for both of them.  It might make them careless, and would certainly render them hostages for each other if any of their enemies ever learned of it. 

Finch was all too keenly aware of the targets painted on their backs already.  Creating his Machine, which he’d built to save as many people as possible, had had consequences even Finch had failed to foresee.  He hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d told Reese that they’d probably both wind up dead from working the numbers it gave them.  While he’d resigned himself to that, Harold also felt a two-fold responsibility to delay their deaths for as long as he could.  He’d come to care deeply for Reese, for one thing; and then there were Grace and the numbers.  Though he’d made a contingency plan so that his work could still be carried on (at least in some fashion) in the event of his death, he knew no one was as uniquely qualified as he to carry out that particular task.  Even Reese couldn’t do it as well.  No one but the Machine’s creator could.  And if Finch died, who would buy extra copies of the magazines Grace illustrated, or check through surveillance footage to make sure she arrived safely back at home after she ran errands?

Finch kept telling himself that given all of the above, “No” was the only logical answer to his secret longing for John Reese. 

A man might need a weapon, after all.  He might buy one, study it, use it and learn its capabilities.  He might get used to keeping it close, and eventually feel drawn to its beauty, its power, its deadly grace.  Given time, he might even come to think of it as a friend.  But only a fool or a potential suicide would turn a weapon on himself, by convincing himself that he truly loved it.

Harold Finch had been many things in his time, and many different people; but he’d never been foolish or suicidal.

“Finch, are you there?”  Reese’s voice murmured in his ear, low and calm as ever.

Harold recalled the time he’d answered that question by saying, _Always, Mr. Reese_.  He often wondered if Reese had any idea how much he wished that could be true.  He sometimes regretted that he’d ever invited Reese to join him in what would surely, one day, prove to be a deadly venture.  Though Reese’s performance as an operative had surpassed anything he could’ve hoped for, that just worsened his guilt.  Harold had never dreamed that he would come to care for Reese as much as he had.  It was as much a source of pain for him as it was pleasure. Nathan was dead, he’d hurt Grace terribly, and sometimes lately, even Reese just seemed like another of Harold’s casualties, waiting to happen.

 _Live by the sword_ …

I should send him away, Harold thought, feeling a flutter of fear.  He knew it was true.  Just as he knew that Reese would never go.

And yet…  Harold knew it was horribly selfish of him, but most days, he was deeply, achingly glad that Reese was there beside him.  Not just because he wasn’t in this alone anymore, but because given the choice, he would rather have Reese – brave, unselfish, strong, loyal, beautiful John Reese – by his side, than anyone else on the planet.

Fear of Reese had turned to trust, which had turned to -- 

“Yes, Mr. Reese.  I’m here,” Finch said quietly, trying to keep the tangle of his longing and regrets out of his voice.

“I’ve got eyes on Ms. Mattison now, Finch.  There’s nothing much happening yet.  She’s showing some clients around an apartment in mid-town.  The master bedroom’s nice, but not nice enough to kill for,” Reese said wryly.  “I’ll stay on it.”

Finch smiled in spite of himself, as he often did at Reese’s jokes.  He just liked to do it when Reese couldn’t see him.  “All right.  I’ll check in with you later, once I’ve turned something up on this end,” he answered, watching as data regarding Ms. Mattison’s family and closest friends flowed across his screens.

Reese could’ve cut their communication off at that point, but for whatever reason, he didn’t.  Sometimes they spent considerable stretches of time like that, just breathing in each other’s ears, each man working separately, yet still connected and aware of the other.  Finch had never questioned why Reese did that, or why he sometimes did too. 

Maybe he was afraid of what Reese might say.

Whenever he looked at John Reese now – his neatly cut dark hair threaded with silver, his perceptive blue eyes, his low voice like rough silk, the fluid, athletic grace in his every move, the elegance of John’s high cheekbones and sensual mouth, and the amusement that often lit his eyes when they spoke (Finch always tried to tell himself it was merely that, rather than the warmth of affection, though it felt more and more like a lie), Harold couldn’t help wishing that things were different.  And wondering if he would always be able to maintain his distance from the man.

Because even geniuses get lonely; and John Reese made Finch wish, over and over again, day after long, lonely day, that he was more of a fool, and less of a thinking man.

Harold wished that most fervently today.  Obviously, because instead of devoting himself to analyzing all the data in front of him on Karen Mattison's co-workers, he was focused on the sound of John Reese breathing.  Focused on it so intently that you’d’ve thought it was one of the greatest mysteries known to humankind.

 _Perhaps it is_.

 _Or perhaps I’m just trying to memorize it, because one day_ –

 _One day_ \--

Harold’s breath caught in his throat, and he couldn’t finish the thought.

“Finch,” Reese asked, eerily perceptive as usual.  “Harold.  Is something wrong?”

Harold found himself entirely unable to answer.  Instead, with one shaky, hollow little _tap_ , he reached up and turned his earbud off.

 


End file.
